Just Breathe
by rebeldesigns
Summary: Oneshot. 2 AM and Sam's wide awake. 'Breathe in for three seconds. Breathe out for three more. The melancholy waltz of the insomniac...'


**Watch Over Me: Sam**

Sam's rambling thoughts about nothing and everything. Oneshot. WARNING: Major Season 2 finale spoilers.

**Disclaimer:** I'm not Eric Kripke. I don't own Supernatural. Get over it. I know I wish I could.

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**Sam's POV**

Breathe in for three seconds. Breathe out for three more. In-2-3. Out-2-3. The melancholy waltz of the insomniac.

The motel room that Sam and Dean Winchester were staying in this time had stuffy, moldy air, with sofas that had burns and stains and bed mattresses that touched the floor when slept upon. Thinking about who had done what in the bed that he was in right now made Sam almost want to pitch tent outside. In fact, he had suggested it to Dean, but he was a strictly indoors man. Sam was like his mother; he appreciated the simple complexity of nature. Whenever Sam and Dean had gone camping with their father, it was Dean with the blow-up air mattress and mosquito net and Sam who stayed up late in front of the tent, looking up at the stars and listening to the chirping and singing of the late-night crickets.

Sam knew better than to complain, though. Lately this was the best that he and Dean could do, considering that they were technically criminals. Now more than ever they needed to keep the lowest of low profiles. Even if it meant sleeping in full clothing to prevent the possible bed bug attack.

So now Sam lay sprawled in a fetal position on his bed, eyes closed but mind wide awake, racing. His eyelids flickered and his brow furrowed as he concentrated on trying to get to sleep. How ironic was that, having to actually concentrate to fall asleep? It seemed that there were not enough sleep-inducing over-the-counter drugs in the world to help with his insomnia. And it wasn't as if he could just go to the local drug store and pop back a few prescription Lunesta pills, either… It depressed Sam to think that his body had actually almost gotten _used_ to running on four hours of sleep each night.

It wasn't like his dreams were a relief from the constant violence and toll of his waking life. Two years ago, Sam's dreams were radically different, both the sleeping and the awake kind. Awake, he'd dream of marrying Jessica, of making it through law school and paving his way through a successful career, and maybe spending his spring break in Paris or somewhere equally as rich in culture. Asleep, he'd dream of mostly the same things. In between, Sam would get flashes, snippets of things that he couldn't quite name dreams at the time, visions that were frightening and altogether much too realistic for his liking.

Sam remembered the first time he had had a vision of Jess' death. He was studying for his double politics test late into the evening and early morning, well after Jessica had fallen asleep. He had dozed away at the desk, apparently from lack of caffeine, and what had happened next scared the crap out of him.

The sound came first. A deafening silence that pressed down on Sam's eardrums so much that it almost hurt. Flashes: the apartment where Sam and Jess lived, the bed that they shared, the bureau with Sam's tie hanging out of it, the fan on the floor next to the closet. **Flash.** The vision shifted upwards to the ceiling. Sam's mind dully registered the fact that the body pinned to the ceiling was Jessica. **Flash.** Her golden hair was spread in a halo around her head, her skin pale, her eyes wide with fear and pain. **Flash.** She gasped hollowly as her mouth struggled to form his name. The gasp was a sound that was as unearthly as the blue fire that suddenly erupted around her form, engulfing her hair and clothes and finally her body. **Flash.** The drip of blood, so warm it was almost hot, dripping onto his face and eyelids. It all felt so _real_.

Sam had woken, shaken awake by Jess herself who had heard his cries of distress. And when she asked him if he was okay, he had lied. Told her he couldn't remember what he was dreaming about, and told her to go back to bed. Sam regretted that more than anything. It happened for _weeks,_ and the more he tried to convince himself it was just a dream, a crazy, vividly detailed dream, the more he could not get it out of his mind.

Sam knew that by now he should be mostly over her death, but it festered in the back of his mind like an infected wound. This wound was constantly being opened once more when Sam allowed himself to dwell on the fact that it was _his_ fault she died, he could have saved her, if only, if only. The if onlys in his life were really starting to piling up.

Sam sighed, his small breath puffing upwards and making the dark bangs of his hair fly up above his forehead before quickly falling back into place. So much for trying to sleep.

He shifted his weight, wincing as the bed creaked loudly, shattering the silence. He waited anxiously, listening for Dean's angry grumble. None came. Dean was out like a light, for once. Good thing too, because his brother deserved it. _At least one of us can sleep tonight_, Sam thought as he flipped over and groped in the dark, feeling for the alarm clock.

The red illuminated numbers flashed back at him, seemingly mocking him as the face read 1:23. One, two, three. The witching hour. His sleep deprived mind made a juvenile little song out of the consecutive numerals. Sam entertained himself with the rhythmic pentameter of the ditty for a short while. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three… Sam smirked self-mockingly. _Okay, insomnia _and _ADD. And quite possibly clinical depression. If I weren't a Winchester, I might be worried about my mental health at this time._

Sam groaned and rubbed a hand across his face as he sat upright in bed. Everything felt so… surreal to him right now, mainly because of the major sleep imbalance in his body, as well as the fact that it was so early in the morning. Shaking his head, he tried to jostle some sense into his overly fatigued brain. He furrowed his brown and pondered what he should do now that he was officially wide awake. Maybe take a couple aspirins for starters. That would be nice, seeing as his head felt like it was having a rock concert in his cerebrum and he was crowd-surfing in the mosh pit. Sam got up and headed slowly to the bathroom, cursing as he tripped over Dean's Timberland size 10s and as a result banged his shin on the low coffee table. It wouldn't leave a bruise, but it still hurt like hell.

Sam flicked the bathroom light on and, wincing at the sudden brightness, shut the door firmly closed behind him. On top of the toilet was a small black canvas bag, in which Dean and Sam stored all their "toiletries and shit," as Dean so eloquently put it. He rooted around for some pills and a bottle of Listerine to use beforehand.

After finishing up, Sam took two Bayer capsules and one Tylenol and put them all in his mouth. It was coming to the point now that he could swallow all of them without water. He wasn't a druggie or something, getting his highs off of over-the-counter Ibuprofen, but his headaches were something that he had almost come to expect at this time of night, and therefore he needed what little relief the aspirins could offer.

Sam splashed some water over his face to freshen his mind up a little bit, now that it had decided that it wasn't going to let him fall asleep until he sorted out his priorities. Looking up at his dripping visage in the bathroom mirror, he observed as detachedly as possible, noting characteristics as an outsider might. Young, youthful male face. Strong features, prominent jaw and cheekbones, full mouth and long, straight nose. Long eyelashes and thick eyebrows framed light green eyes; eyes whose intense gaze and indeterminable depths aged him to more than twice his age. These were eyes that had seen far too much for far too long. Underneath these eyes were the telltale signs of exhaustion: dark, deep smudges under his lower lids alluded to many a restless night spend tossing and turning without a wink of sleep. His jaw was stubbly in a disheveled neatness, and his hair was mussed from sleep (or lack thereof) and its natural tendency to stick out.

Despite his rather haggard appearance, Sam figured he looked alright. He was never one to primp or flex his muscles for women; it was Dean who was the ladies' man. Sam chuckled a little at this, shaking his head.

_Dean, Dean, Dean._ What a guy and what a brother. Sam looked up to his brother so much, and loved him so much, more than he'd like to admit to that pain in the ass sometimes. It was just the two of the Winchester hunters left, whether they liked it or not, and sometimes it felt like it was just the two of them left in the world. Loneliness is a more powerful poison than anger, than fear. More often than not, these days, it held Sam in its powerful and unrelenting grip, and not because of the monsters and demons he and Dean fought every day. No, it was seeing Dean get hurt, the thought of losing his brother. He had felt this pain most clearly in that hospital when Dean was in limbo and their dad made the deal with the yellow-eyed demon. John Winchester was already gone. It wouldn't do well for Sam if Dean died, too.

And now the stupid sonofabitch made a _deal._ For _him._ How did Dean think that made Sam feel? Knowing that _he _should be dead and Dean alive? Knowing that Dean sold his soul to hell? The thought of this brought tears to his eyes, tears that he angrily swiped away. What was Dean _thinking_, the idiot. Dean knew what it felt like, hell, when their father died that was all he thought about for weeks. The fact that it was happening all over again, this time to him, made his stomach clench.

Sam bent over the sink, face in both hands and elbows resting on the rim. He stood there, all of this information fully hitting him for the umpteenth time this month. Sam had said to Dean that night in the graveyard that he would not rest until he found a way out of this mess, a way to terminate Dean's promise with the demon at the crossroads. Sam had meant it then, too, but the more he faced the facts the more he realized that this just the beginning. Was it selfish to focus all his energies on saving his brother when there was an entire _world_ out there needing to be saved? Sam didn't know, but so help him, if he had to go down to hell himself and kill every single one of those bastards in order to save his older brother, he would do it willingly, with no regard for his own life. After all, Dean cheated death once. Who's to say he couldn't do it again?

One thing was for sure. No one, no _thing_, was going to harm his brother. It was time for the younger brother to protect the older. Sam was tired of being the damsel in distress, as Dean so often called him. He was ready to take on some of the weight on Dean's shoulders, ready to be Dean's shield for once. Bring it on.

In the other room, Sam heard the bed springs creak and groan. Dean snuffled and snorted as he shifted his position on the rock-hard slabs the motel called mattresses. With surprised relief, Sam noticed his headache was gone. He packed up their black bag and restored it to its rightful place on the toilet. He then opened the bathroom door slowly and inched towards his bed, careful to avoid the area where Dean had tossed his boots.

Sam sighed as he laid his weary body down onto the bed, his body facing away from the alarm clock, which now read 2:15. As Sam's eyelids slowly grew heavier and his mind grew ever blanker, he assured himself with one pure thought; in a world in which shadows really did hide things in the dark, he could sleep a little easier knowing that Dean was on his side, and most importantly, he had _himself_. Sometimes self-belief is one of the most important tools one can have in the face of adversity. Sam certainly felt it now as his breathing got deeper and he slipped into a dreamless slumber.

Breathe in, breathe out. Sometimes that was all that was keeping Sam Winchester going.

**A/N:** I want to thank the wonderful friend and authoress **Sheppo** for beta reading this oneshot installment. I'd also like to thank in advance any reviewers. Reviews are what keep me going and they really boost my morale. Even 1-word reviews are cool.

So, please, if you have the time click the pretty purple button and type a little something or other. Flamers are welcome as well, because I have an armor of steel and won't listen to you anyway! REVIEW!


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